Although I felt rather afraid of my fierce-looking visitor, I
could scarcely keep my gravity; there was such an air of pompous
self-approbation about the Indian, such a sublime look of conceit in his
grave vanity.

"Moodie's squaw cannot do every thing; she cannot paint young men," said
I, rising, and putting away my drawing materials, upon which he kept his
eye intently fixed, with a hungry, avaricious expression. I thought it
best to place the coveted objects beyond his reach. After sitting for some
time, and watching all my movements, he withdrew, with a sullen,
disappointed air. This man was handsome, but his expression was vile.
Though he often came to the house, I never could reconcile myself to his
countenance.

Late one very dark, stormy night, three Indians begged to be allowed to
sleep by the kitchen stove. The maid was frightened out of her wits at the
sight of these strangers, who were Mohawks from the Indian woods upon the
Bay of Quinte, and they brought along with them a horse and cutter.
The night was so stormy, that, after consulting our man--Jacob Faithful,
as we usually called him--I consented to grant their petition, although
they were quite strangers, and taller and fiercer-looking than our friends
the Missasaguas.

I was putting my children to bed, when the girl came rushing in, out of
breath. "The Lord preserve us, madam, if one of these wild men has not
pulled off his trowsers, and is a-sitting mending them behind the stove!
and what shall I do?"

"Do?-why, stay with me, and leave the poor fellow to finish his work."